


Worn

by fuckles



Category: Gay baby gang, misfits youtube, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Corrupted Fitz, Heist AU, Mind altering weapons, Multi, Past Torture, Relationship Issues, Soulmates AU, Split Personalities, Untold plot and background, altered DNA, serious writing by an immature author, villain AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckles/pseuds/fuckles
Summary: Hidden lives and hidden horrors. Two groups waging war over past events, some of which even they have forgotten about. But none of them can forget what keeps the fight going; their blood is polluted with evils that should be long dead. Walk with them, these half demons, and you’ll understand, too.





	1. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz finds the gem. Z mans an explosion. Swagger is the knight in shining armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so i forgot to fucking write it in but im too tired to edit it rn and i just wanna GET THIS OUT THERE—the gem is still in cams pocket and its fine lol

Fitz creeped into a room, but he wasn’t sure which one it was. Judging by the path he had just taken through the monitored hall way, and the lack of furniture, the thief made an educated guess on it being the safe room. Along an opposite wall his murky eye landed on a small and plain brown box suffocating under old mail and cigar butts.

Barely breathing above a whisper, he spoke into the delicately placed comm along his throat, “Z, located the gem.” His weight was distributed lightly on both feet, and each step until now had been a puzzle piece he needed to map as he remembered where each floorboard was laid. The game had changed however. Instead of expensive and lavish hardwood floors, he’d entered the purposefully forgotten office. Here the wood wormed with little things, lying things. They inched and crawled and slunk along the grimey sheen of age that riddled the floor, ready to alert anyone of his presence should his breath stir a paper.

“Are you safe?” Z replied, voice holding an edge of worry. Fitz didn’t dare read into the underlying softness. With a disdained sniff he began examining his route towards the box.

“Fine. Lasers everywhere. Cutting comm until I’m through.” Reserved. Cautious. Professional.

“Cam–” His associate sounded surprised, but the brief crackle of static that lapsed into heavy silence steadied the thief’s nerves. He inhaled once, deeply, then breathed out through his nose until his lungs burned. Holding the exhale, he slipped forward. Every spider web, lifeless page, or rotting apple core held a hidden object behind it; camera, motion detector, tripwire. Fitz had them memorized. He knew what flipped them. His ribs felt like they were piercing his organs. His chest was on fire. He stepped closer. A laser adjusted, changed course, stopped a hair width away from his exposed eye. It was white-hot and buzzing. He reached out with one hand, unblinking, and jammed his finger into a missing sliver of wood carved out of the desk.

His lungs expanded in a gasp of breath as he sagged forward and fell onto the ground, every snare disabling as the deactivation button was successfully pressed. Immediately, the room’s cloak dissolved and Fitz squinted at the harsh white light compared to what he had just been submerged in. The fading wallpaper peeled away, every moldy floorboard winked out of sight, and the broken old window blared from silent night to fluorescent white. He was no longer in a cluttered, dilapidated office. Instead his knees were pressed into the metal floor of a seemingly endless room with nothing but white abyss and a simple, clean desk. Mindful, however, of Fitz and the box.

With a pant the man looked down at it. The magician’s charm melted away and revealed a glinting blue stone under the fake mask of cheap, brittle wood. Within it were levels of brown and green and gray, color pounded in from years of energy being stored. Fitz gulped in air for a moment before sighing heavily. He pressed his left middle finger to the center of his palm and waited for Z to curse him out over the reopened line.

“I’m good, before you ask.”

There was a shriek of echo, and then Z’s voice came through in frantic annoyance, “I wasn’t going to ask, you self entitled cunt! Is the gem alright?” Fitz shook his head and struggled to bite back a smile.

“Gem is fine. Lasers are gone. I’ll be needing your eyes again soon.” Reserved. Cautious. Professional.

His associate grumbled something but the thief could hear familiar key clicking under his pouting tone. “Right. Yeah, well, I already have a path routed out. Just let me know when you’ve caught your breath so I don’t waste time screaming at the comm again.”

“Z...my apologies,” Reserved. Cautious. Sympathetic, “I’m ready now.” Fitz stood, gem clutched gently in his hand. The room was blurry and disorientating as his one eye struggled to make sense of the miraging horizon. He blinked and squinted. The man on the other line seemed to sense his hesitance.

“Right angle, door is straight ahead,” Then, with a quiet huff, before Fitz could thank him, “You took me by surprise is all. But I trust you, so I know you meant well.”

“Not the words _I’d_ use, nonetheless—it’s appreciated. Thank you. Leaving door now–” The man’s legs drew him forward. No longer careful of creaking, he shuffled quickly out into the hall.

“To your left this time. You’re leaving through the window, not the front door mister,” Z interrupted. Fitz rolled his eye but was thankful for the gentle reminder. However, his stomach tightened at the thought of descending out the window. He listened closely but picked up no noise from around the corner, so he slunk into a crouch and hurried low along the wall. His mouth was open to relay an update back to Z when he heard a shift of weight above him. The ceiling groaned, stealing his breath with it.

“How’s it coming?” The Australian bubbled in his ear. Fitz closed his eye and focused on the energy directly above him. They wavered for a second, then seemingly adjusted on their feet as the ceiling creaked again.

“Fitz? How’s it coming?” With an exhale, he slowed his heartbeat to almost nothing and folded closer to the wall.

_I am air, I am shadow._

Time passed in painstakingly long moments.

“Cameron?” Z sounded edgy and Fitz could picture how his face looked. Tight, eyebrows pinched, his teeth working his bottom lip. It helped ease the throb of his lungs as his body screamed for oxygen. He began to grow lightheaded, and swirling pictures of color danced behind his eyelids. The person above him stepped to the left and the thief heard a door open. His eye snapped open and he watched the shadow on the wall directly in front of him disappear. Yellow lamp light bloomed from around the corner, glowing down the staircase. Fitz waited, but he knew the window was blocked unless he wanted to be seen dashing across the base of the stairs.

“Cameron, don’t you fucking dare.” So Z had done a thermal scan. He must have been referring to leaving through a different exit. Fitz closed his eye again, adjusted the patch covering his other one, and slipped his hand into the hidden pocket sewn along his thigh. His fingers retracted, revealing a thin, metallic gray knife. It winked in the dim light and kissed his skin with cold. The edge was paper thin and dangerous, thirsting for more blood. It had tasted death before; it wanted more. Fitz filled his lungs and grinned.

 _He_ wanted more. A knife could only kill if made to kill.

Z came through, panicked, “Cam! Wait! Would you–”

“Let’s dance, sweetheart,” He sang, shutting off his comm in the process. Wild. Deranged. Professional. The light on the wall was blocked out with a man’s silhouette and Fitz chuckled. His pupil dilated, his heart rate spiked, and there was a twisted gleam to his smile. The knife jumped along his knuckles.

“I knew you were coming. I’m guessing you’ve already succeeded in stealing from me?” He sounded smart, but not smart enough to slow the pounding of his heart. _He’s not the magician. He lies. He is easy prey._

With a click of his tongue, the thief hummed a sad tune. “If you knew I was coming love,” He stood abruptly, loving the way his head spun as the blood rushed to his limbs. He could see stars.  _That_ was it. That spark, that drive. He could hold his breath forever and never reach that _bliss_. Arousal coursed like lead in his veins and the knife whistled through the air. His voice shook as he spoke, but not from fear, “You should have killed me from the start. Because now I’m ready, baby. You’re going to be oh-so-pretty with my knife slitting your throat. Be good and–”

“You sick fuck! You’re crazy!” The man's voice trembled and Fitz shivered, dragging his knife against the wall. Paint chipped and fell away behind him. He could hear the fear, the rapidly beating heart. It drove him mad. He couldn’t wait for it to stop. Still, he wanted to have a little fun first. He came to the end of the hall and stopped just inside the shadow.

“Breaking so easily! Definitely not Kryoz. Aw, that’s a shame...I was looking forward to meeting him. I wanted to thank him for _this_.” The thief lifted his hand around the corner and marveled at the gem glimmering in the light. “What’s your name, kitten?” Fitz lowered his arm and tucked his precious cargo away in another pocket.

“Why- Why would I–”

“So you won’t tell me? Well, let’s hope people know who you are! It would be so, so _sad_ to see you left without a headstone!” He sighed, growing bored, and listened again to the heartbeat. It was flying along, beats skipping across an imaginary racecourse. The race would end soon enough. The fear was telling, however. _He’s unarmed._ Fitz grinned, eye rolling back in his head for a moment. He swayed, losing grip on the wall, and stumbled out into the hall. The knife was setting fire loose in his veins. It whispered filthy thoughts in his head. He inhaled slowly and snarled a smile.

“When I see Kryoz next, I’ll have to thank him for the _two_ presents he left me. Such an easy little mouse such as yourself couldn’t have been abandoned on _accident_!” He laughed, tossing his head back. His weapon was ice in his warm palm. It pulled him forward with a haunting power and he licked his lips, gaining a thread of composure. “I’m tired. Can we be done?” The man—he had a gentle face with soft cheeks and eyes—was shaking. It was almost a pity. Had he been led down a different path, he could have been a happy person. He had the look for it. But Fitz only shrugged and advanced.

He knew there were no windows upstairs, so if the man ran he was trapped. A detached thought tickled the back of the thief’s mind; that this could be a trap for _him_ as well, but he trusted Z to keep him safe. Communication or not, they had been in worse situations with less to use. He began his way up the stairs, giggling when the man backed up into the room and away from the wicked gleam of Fitz and his knife. Still, he didn’t look away, and he didn’t run.

_It’s a trap._

Fitz paused. He listened. The heartbeat continued to pound away. He squinted and cocked his head to the side. He understood then.

 _Oh. It’s two heartbeats._ With a sigh he halted on the stairs.

“Why didn’t Z pick up on that?” The thief asked. He tried to ignore the look of confusion on the man’s face. It was getting annoying.

_Well, you did cut him off._

Nodding, he shrugged a bit. “Hm, true. How rude of me.”

_Yes, very. He deserves something when you get back._

This wrung an exasperated sigh from his throat and he shot an apologetic look at his prey, lifting one finger to ask for a moment. “If you get out of my head in time I’ll be _perfectly_ capable of coming up with an apology.”

 _Fitzy! You know I always leave in time. It’s just a matter of how long_ you _want me around._

It grew quiet. The thief grumbled under his breath and then shook his head out. He pushed on, trying to formulate a plan for the escape no doubt about to take place. The man stiffened as he grew closer, but betrayed himself by flicking his eyes to the left. It was minuscule, but enough to confirm that he wasn’t alone. Trying to control a frown, Fitz felt a pinch of hurt in his inebriated state. The knife licked his consciousness. A jolt of adrenaline raced through him again and he shrugged off the disappointment of not being able to kill today. _That doesn’t mean there won’t be more chances later_. He tossed the weapon to his other hand and prepared to lunge. Instinctively, the man readied to jump out of the way. Fitz winked at him and tried one last time.

“I never got your name.”

Cocky, thinking he was about to pull off a trap, his opponent hesitated. His voice was smooth, and calmer than his heartbeat would have allowed had it actually been his, “Seven-Y.”

It clicked. _Smiity. Of course! Those two are never without the other._ Giving himself little time to dwell on the information however, Fitz raced up the last two stairs. He heard a gun click, far too loud on his sensitive ears, but he ignored it as he reached the landing and slammed the door closed. A bang went off, blowing the wall next to him clear through. Splinters rained down on his shoulders as he frantically backtracked. The knife slid back into his pocket, and with it went the warm haze of insanity. Immediately, a splash of cold, crystal clear sense washed over him and he gasped in a breath. The door opened and the gun went off again. A bullet zipped past him, exploding the floorboard inches from his foot. He let out a shocked laugh and dived for the window as another shot went off.

His elbow broke the glass, long shards of glass slicing the thin material of his shirt. He knew there was damage, but the pain didn’t register yet. A blooming ache hollowed at his chest and he tried to ignore it as the ground surged up to meet him. Rolling on impact, he scrambled towards the shelter of a car, wincing as a bullet shattered the back windshield and showered him in glass. Switching on the comm one last time, he managed a brief check in.

“Kryoz and Smiity! I’m taking fire!” Fitz whipped his head to the side, gasping, and peeked behind the car. A glint of metal caught his eye in the window and he huddled under his cover when another shot rang out.

Z screamed over the line, jolting Fitz away from the chaos and into a bubble with only the other man’s voice for company, “Jesus Christ you daft idiot. You’re lucky I sent a drone over the moment you went silent. Are you in the open?”

Shaking his head, the thief had to remember that Z couldn’t see him. “No! I’m behind a red convertible, blown out windows, west side,” Then, thinking, he added, “Not sure how long I have until the snipers lock in on my location.”

The Australian audibly groaned. His fingers were pounding away at keys. “Right. Can you run in sixty-seven seconds? I have a missile aimed at the car.”

 _Of course he does. Why do you always fall for the ones obsessed with fire, huh?_ “Fuck. Okay. I’m counting down.” A brief lapse of silence filled the area and Fitz debated crawling to a hedge of shrubs. He decided against it, and fumbled instead with a small explosive strapped to his hip. Z had invented the weapon himself, but Fitz had never intended to use it. His knife usually sufficed. With a grunt, he pulled the pin and tossed it blindly towards the house.

Before the explosion sounded, he picked up a familiar voice on the line. “He’s so dumb. So fucking stupid,” Z spoke louder next, directly to Fitz, “Did you use your knife?” The bomb went off. Gravel shot up into the air, along with thick patches of dirt and grass, but the thief hadn’t hit the house. He’d managed to buy himself a sheet of cover, still counting down in the process.

With a frown he scoffed, “I always use my knife. No kills this time.”

“ _What?_ ” Z shrieked, “How did you sober up?”

“The way I always do!” Fitz objected. He felt a twinge of disappointment that Z was surprised with his ability to calm down, “Obviously I— _there’s a_ fucking _machine gun!_ —thought of you.” As bullets pelted the north front of the car the tall man scrambled behind a wheel, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Flattery won’t make the drone come any faster Cameron!”

The rapid fire stopped. His ears were ringing. He had one, maybe two moments of rest. Adrenaline shocked through his system but he could feel where his body was slowly needing assistance. “Worth a shot I guess...Z, I think I was hit.”

“Vest?” The other’s tone dripped with worry and the thief’s heart dropped at the sound.

“Yeah. But I might have broken a rib. If not, my arm is bleeding pretty bad as well. Smashed a window.”

Z didn’t add a comment on the matter, but his tone had tightened, “Right. The drone’s ready. Missile in ten! Swagger is on the buggy a mile out, rushing you now.”

Fitz readied on his feet, listening for the machine gun to start up again. “Eyes on Creamy?”

“He just sniped the machine gunner. Run, Cam! Six seconds!” Z urged. The tall man panted, clinging to his vest. His ribs were throbbing and making each breath feel too little, too thin.

“West treeline?” He managed weakly.

Z sounded desperate now, “Yes, please for the love of Christ, just get out of there! Two seconds! _One_!”

Pushing himself to his feet—and prepared to feel a bullet lodge itself in his skull—Fitz bolted for the trees. They were thirty, maybe forty meters away, and welcoming him with open arms. The ground shook abruptly as Z’s promised missile collided with the convertible. A horrible screech of metal on metal filled the air, but it lasted only a breath before the explosives did their job. Fitz couldn’t hear over the noise, but he could feel it. The heat was inescapable. He had to run. It was the only option.

Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten. Five. He barreled into a tree, slumping against the bark as a fiery gust of wind blew him over. The acidic stench of smoke and melting car interior reached him through the shrubbery, but he remained low to the ground and inched amongst the thick undergrowth.

“...ron? _Cameron_?” Over the sharp ringing in his ears, Fitz picked up Z’s voice. He groaned, body revolting against every move. Each breath was fire and ash. He wheezed out a harsh laugh.

“Jesus...I’m fine. Where’s Swagger?” He couldn’t pick out the rumbling motor of a buggy over the grinding gunfire. It was slower, and not shooting in his direction, but the thief didn’t want to take any chances and wander blindly about in search of his ride. Good things come to those who wait, or some bullshit like that.

“He’s coming. Lay low if you need to. You fucking _flew_ just now.” There was a hint of a smile as Z spoke. Fitz closed off any trailing thought and continued crawling. A fresh wave of pain wracked through him and he moaned into his forearm, breathing heavy. When the throbbing had subsided to a dull ache the man waited to catch his breath before moving again.

“It _fucking_ felt like it. Say, are you reading my thermal?” He said, breathless. Z hesitated.

“Nah, I have eyes on your tracker.” That brought a wry smile the the thief’s face and, as he wormed over the thick forest floor, he let himself be distracted from the pain with light flirting.

“How intimate. You know where I put it, right?”

His associate cut in curtly, “For once, I’m gonna ask you to shut up.”

_He is so not in the mood. What did you do? Stick something up his ass? Wait...don’t answer that. I already know the answer._

“Oh would you piss off already?” He growled. A moment of silence lapsed between them before Fitz realized Z had heard.

“Is the voice still there?” He asked quietly.

He thief rolled his eyes and finally gave up on crawling anywhere. Slow progress was still progress, but fuck was he tired. “It’s not a _voice_ , it’s–”

“Your inner conscious? I don’t buy it Cam. It wasn’t there before the accident,” Z spat out. His argument didn’t waver. They had discussed this countless times. It never did anything to change the fact that _Fitz_ wasn’t just _Fitz_ anymore.

“No matter how much you try, nothing changes the fact that I wasn’t like _this_ before the accident. Can’t you move on?”

Z didn’t reply. A minute stretched out before the thief accepted he wouldn’t get any further with that attitude today. Bitter, the older of the two cursed. His pouting fell on indifferent ears. Time lulled past for what felt like hours, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in his ears and the overexerted ache of his bones that clutched Fitz on the edges of sleep. A quiet beep made him crack open his eyes as Z relayed an update on the buggy’s position, “Swagger’s sixteen meters out.”

It was true. He could feel the slightest vibrations in the earth, growing stronger as seconds ticked by, “I hear him.” Then, tenderly, no longer liking the cold anger on the other side of the line, he went on to say, “Z, I’ll see you soon.” Longing. Cautious. Vulnerable.

The Australian hummed softly, “Right. You better be in one piece.” The buggy was louder now, shaking the underbrush awake. Fitz rolled over gingerly on his side and could just make out movement in the trees.

“I promised, didn’t I?” He whispered. Z chuckled dryly.

“If I know one thing about you, it’s that I should never take your word for it.”

Fitz grinned, “That’s my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, as always. more to come angels ♥


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Z reunite. The new doctor is sassy. Swagger makes an entrance. Their past is still shrouded with the smoke they breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this story so fucking much. thank you for letting me write it

Swagger’s sun visor had a little mirror on it, and Fitz found he was staring at himself in the reflection. He used to have blue eyes. They had been hazy, and reminded people of stormy seas. But to him they had always been watery ponds, with ripples gliding across the surface. Now, the one he showed to the world was deep red, and lit up in certain settings, where crimson veins of varying reds swirled in the iris.

Under blacklight, Fitz had scars. They glowed along the pale edges, like he was cracked eggshell; porcelain beauty, but broken. They were blooms of fluorescent color—pink, green, yellow, purple—from the left side of his hairline and down over his eyebrow. His eyepatch was a stark black amongst the scar. The blossoms faded out against the sharp crease of his nose, though not before dripping into a harsh snag on his chin. That scar didn’t glow, and it showed under every light. When he smiled—if he smiled—it gave him the wolfish impression of a snarl.

His hair had been different too. That part actually made him a little sad. He used to like his hair a lot. It had been dirty blond, and dusty along his forehead. It had taken him longer to get adjusted to the new dark brown fluff that crowned his face than it had to accept his deteriorating vision. One eye was still an eye, no matter how blurry or red.

He blinked. His patch—marked with a white F—came into view as he cleared his bleary gaze the best he could, and looked back out the windshield window. Swagger was saying something, and Fitz sensed a nervous urgency to his tone, but he just stared out of focus at the trees streaking past.

“Hold on, buddy. Hold on.”

•••••

When the thief came to again, he sucked in a sharp breath at the clear pain churning through his gut. It pounded against his ribs in a rhythmic _bum, bum, bum_ that he quickly realized was his heartbeat. Gentle hands played with his hair, smoothing it away from his face. He was wet with sweat. Something smelled like eucalyptus and mint. Something close, soft, warm. He shivered, panting a sob, and pressed into the safety of that something. The pain surged through his lungs and bones, but distantly he was also aware of a prick in his arm. Something pet his head again. A caressing finger rubbed his cheekbone and Fitz drew in a sweet breath. Bliss fogged his veins inch by inch, rolling through each limb as if fog. He lost the ability to focus on pain. Finally numb, Fitz slept deeply.

•••••

“How is his breathing?” It was a familiar voice that spoke, one with rumbling tones of sea glass and honey bees buzzing. He calmed at it, but focused greater on understanding what it meant. Somehow, he knew the voice meant safety and protection. He could heal under its warmth.

“It’s fine now. His rib pierced his lung, and he had internal bleeding, but he should be healing better with the morphine.” This voice was new, and made him retreat. This wasn’t gentle; it was cold and calculating.

“Right. And the surgery?” A mild pinch of discomfort reminded him of something—an urgent slash of white pain—but the drug melted the threat. He’d been hurt.

“His scars will be gone by the time he wakes up, I’m guessing.”

“Is that important?” Things sounded cleared now, but sharper too.

“It’s just that, uh, I bet you know him  _pretty well_ , and not everyone’s into scars.”

“I know as little about the infection as you do. Next time, keep your snarky inquiries to yourself.” That was Z. Fitz stirred slightly. _That was Z_. A deep part of him needed to be around the other man, let him know things were alright.

“Huh. Figures you two are a pair, only a _halfing_ could handle you.” Ignoring the increasing bite to the words, the thief struggled awake. Time was slow and, apparently, he had turned to lead throughout the night.

“I’m human and I know where you hurt, buddy–” Now, now,  _now! Fitz–_

“Z...” His mouth felt full and dry, like his tongue had grown. Blind, he turned towards the Australian. Everything was too bright and new.  _Don't forget to breathe._

“Cam?” Fitz choked on a gasp, but Z was already there, “Cam, hey. How’re you feeling?” His lungs worked; that was good. The air was sweet and minty along his tongue, and he felt he was the cleanest he’d ever been.

“Fine, love, I’m  _good_ ,” Fitz wheezed. A pained smile graced his face.

“Yeah?” Z was beaming. “How’s that healed rib huh?”

“Great. How’re  _you_?” His arm reached out slightly for the other, morphine and hormones coursing through his system as Mason’s proximity overwhelmed his senses. The shorter man had doe-wide eyes, and the purest grin Cameron had seen on him in ages. Their fingers touched, only featherlight contact, before Fitz sobered up enough to break through his rose-colored glasses and see the world in blood red. Z watched insistently; wanting just a little _more_ , before their heads cleared.

“I’ve been worse, Cam. I’m happy you’re back.”

Shifting, Fitz nodded, “Me too. You and I have work to do.” A hiss of breath pulled his gaze from Z, however hesitantly, and he finally put the second voice to a face. It was the new doctor in the compound. He was taller than Z, and had a scruffy beard that matched his tired expression.

“And you are?” Fitz said dryly. The man raised his eyebrows, managing to look offended, but didn’t comment on it.

“My humblest apologies,” He said cheekily, “The name is Dr. Matt Inut; at your service.” Already, Fitz liked him. He had an odd feeling he shouldn’t, but someone with enough balls to sass Z  _and_ himself was deserving of respect. However little.

Matt cleared his throat and dramatically reviewed his notes before looking up again, “It seems that you’re all good after yesterday, so I’ll be taking my leave. If you need anything, tap your comm twice, and I’ll be available.”

Fitz rolled his eyes. Already, the morphine was wearing off, and his adrenaline from seeing Z again was a distant buzz as he mumbled, “Thank you, but I think I can heal fine on my own, Doctor.”

The other chuckled. He seemed to make a habit of being one step too far for Fitz to catch up with his snippy replies. “I don’t doubt you. I simply meant relationship advice, because the two of you seem to need it. Toodles!” He carried himself out of the sliding infirmary doors with an air of pride that itched a deep nerve in Fitz’ head.

“Well, he’s new,” The thief murmured, half to himself.

“He is. Cam,” Z started, catching the brunette’s attention, “You’re sure you’re alright?” His blue eyes were crystal clear in the washed out lighting. Something within Fitz wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, pull him closer, kiss the pout tugging on his lips, but the taller man refrained.

“I’m not just  _human_ nowadays, y’know. I’m okay, Z, really.” The Australian didn’t look convinced. Between them, Fitz could feel a string trailing throughout his chest. It was a unique tickle, like a strand of hair brushing his eyelashes when it got too long. Z no doubt felt it too, but he looked busy trying to ignore the urge to reclaim the brunette’s heart. Fitz almost felt bad for the other man. He couldn’t provide. Christ, did he hate not being able to be what Z wanted.

Their past had changed. Things had changed; and the title of “soulmates” didn’t fit quite right anymore. With a tired sniff, Fitz pulled his hand away—ignoring the way Z’s index finger had wrapped around his—and rubbed his face with a groan. He could smell Z’s eucalyptus-scented soap on his own skin. If there was a God, they knew exactly how to ruin his day.

“I think I’m destined for Hell,” He mused. His eyepatch was still on. Distantly, Fitz felt a twinge of guilt, and knew Z must have argued his way into that. The shorter man barked out a scoff, but seemed content to keep on talking.

“Yeah?”

Fitz hummed. Fighting himself, he failed to hold back a shy smile, “Yeah. Hell fire and heat. The world up here is too cold for me.” He wanted to make it a running joke, but when his gaze cast to Z, the Australian was frowning. His sharp brows were folded together and he was working on pulling a thread out of the blanket. Fitz’ face mirrored the look subconsciously. Soulmate things.

“How can you…” Z trailed off and sat up in his chair abruptly as he sniffed. His voice was wet, “How can you joke about those things when you know what they call you?”

 _Demon._ The thought slammed into the thief’s head; unwanted. He winced, tearing his eyes from Z, and made a move to leave the bed. His legs protested, jumping with pins and needles as he worked blood into the lower half of his body. Still, Fitz struggled upright and stepped across the room. Z didn’t make a noise, didn’t shift in his seat, and didn’t seem for all the world to be surprised that Fitz was leaving.

“We can’t have one talk can we?” His voice was so quiet when he spoke. It reminded Fitz of bubbling water. He tried to shrug it off. “What happened to us, Cammy?”

Something in the brunette snapped, and he balled up his fist, “ _They_ happened. I happened. Nothing can stay perfect forever–”

“We were never perfect! But we were  _we,_ and didn’t have people calling our bond messy because you were–” Z’s voice rattled him, and the thief raised his lip in a snarl.

“Say it then. Say what I am.”

Z sighed. He sounded exhausted, “What do you want me to fucking confess Cameron? That you’re a demon? I don’t know _what_ you are. The infection turned you into something not human, but that doesn’t mean you’re...a monster, either. Why can’t we still be us? Why can’t we heal…” Fitz didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare find Z in the madness of their world and see that things, for once, made sense. He couldn’t trust his hormones not to betray him.

“Being human again would make me weak, and I can’t– I have to protect you, Z...you want me human, but I want you. So fucking forgive me if I’m staying as far away from hurting you as possible.” There was a window on the opposite wall. The curtains were drawn tightly over it.  _You could always jump through another window..._

“My safety isn’t your call to make. I need you again. I don’t care how much you push me away, nothing will ever stop both of us from _feeling_ each other.” Which was true. Even now, Fitz could feel that Z was upset. It almost wasn’t there, but if he focused hard enough it knotted like a cramp in his stomach.

Through gritted teeth he spat, “If I’m not human do you really think I could keep a bond?”

A long stretch of silence. Fitz almost walked out, half convinced Z was done with him. He knew he was wrong though. He had goosebumps rising along his back. Z finally spoke, and he sounded like a different man. He sounded as if there was gravel in his throat, with steely molars grinding up the bitter hate in his words, “So that’s why you want that gem?” He was careful not the hint at its location, and Fitz knew he’d have to hunt it down himself, “Do you really think it can fix all your problems by getting rid of me?”

Fitz shook his head and sighed in defeat. Turning on his heel, he found Z’s blue gaze. He had to look down. With the Aussie seated, their height difference was exaggerated. “Nothing will be fixed, but you won’t be stuck with me. You deserve more Z; more than this life, and this job, and this bond. For once in your fucking life can’t you follow an order and listen to me? Think of us like a job, alright? I’m the one out there doing all the dirty work, and you’re sitting here listening in. If you let me do _my_ shit...it pays off in the end.” He wiped his face again and–unwilling to listen to another word–walked out.

The door swung shut behind him and locked with a soft click. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t go back without entering his code into the keypad, which wasn’t hard work, but it was a commitment. Fitz hated arguing, but he hated going out of his way even more. Z would have to find him later if he wanted to talk, and Z always wanted to talk. Not willing to return to his room, but still needing to change out of his hospital gown, Fitz felt uneasy standing in the hallway. All around him he could hear the compound coming to life, and knew it must’ve been the next morning. His clothes—with their wear and tear—were no doubt discarded.

He wondered where his knife had ended up, but as soon as the thought struck him the young man knew.

_Swagger._

Fitz rolled his eye, “Yes, I’ve got that. You said you’d be gone by now, but you’ve been whispering all day.”

_Can you blame me Fitzy? I like the drama...and I like you. You're so complex when you're mad._

He swore he heard slithering, like a snake slinking towards prey. He suppressed a shudder, “Get out of my head. It’s too early to deal with your pervy thoughts.”

_Such an enigmatic man. If only I had hands._

“Shame. Now go away,” He grunted. There were footsteps down the hall, and he wanted to be as alone as possible if he had to deal with someone.

 _Fine, for now. One day I'll get to stay forever, Fitzy. One day we can be together forever._ The voice said dreamily.

“Vile little fucking worm,” He mumbled, now to himself, but there was a distinct lack of venom in his voice. Just tired anger. The steps grew closer, then took an abrupt turn down another hallway. He sighed and melted into a stretch, and his neck cracked as he rolled his head side to side. The door behind him hadn’t yet opened, and he had spent long enough out in the open. Z didn’t want to chase after him it seemed, so Fitz would do a hunt of his own. Find Swagger; he would have clothes, and he would have the knife.

Going left, the thief started his march down the pale gray hallways. The compound was—for the most part—underground. The private rooms, medical centers, meat supplies, and most of their information storage was nearly three miles below the surface, and protected by an outer cement shell. Up top, on the surface, they grew their plants, had most of the training grounds, and kept visitors. Nobody made it into the compound without clearance from Swagger or Fitz first. Mostly Swagger nowadays. Fitz had a tendency to disappear on a mission whenever he got the chance, and his comm could only be called using Z’s code.

Nobody minded much, however. The thief wasn’t the kind to attract screaming popularity, and those who respected him nearly always did it out of fear. He liked that. It made his heart pound every time he startled them; the way their breathing hitched and their eyes widened. It was the little things.

Somewhere along the way, Fitz had taken a wrong turn, and found himself at the shooting range. He stared at the empty firing lanes. He’d been so lost in thought, he must have–

A gunshot rang out, loud and sharp in the condensed room. Unflinching, Fitz stared, waiting to see if the shooter would show themselves. Another shot sounded. Calculating, he turned his attention to the target, and watched where the bullets hit. So far, one had buried itself in the head, and another in the chest, near the heart. A third bullet fired. It sunk into the same hole as the one in the target’s head. Smirking, Fitz knew it was Creamy in the shooting booth, hidden behind a panel. As he turned to leave he wondered how long it had been since he’d seen the sniper face-to-face. It must have been months.

•••••

Swagger swallowed his sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked relaxed, freshly showered, but there was a darkness masking his face. Even without the helmet, he never looked open. Fitz could hardly blame him.

“You were unconscious when I brought you in yesterday,” The shorter man said, “They dug a bullet out of your vest for fuck’s sake, and yet here you are; asking me for your knife.” Swagger shook his head, taking another swig from the can in his hand. Fitz shrugged.

“I need it. Besides, we both heal the same.” His clothes felt good. Not the same type he usually wore for work, but maybe he wasn’t working right now. Maybe he could have one hour of beer and talk. Maybe.

“I don’t get blown up nearly every week, Fitz.” That was true, but nonetheless the thief raised an eyebrow.

“So? If I can take the shots, I’m going to. Either way, the job needs to be done.”

Swagger scoffed, setting down his drink long enough to pull out a lighter, “You’re reckless, man. You’ve stopped valuing your own life.” He revealed a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, and waved it—now open—for Fitz to take one. He did.

“I’ve got nothing to live for, Swags. Nobody here does,” He paused long enough to lean in for the American to light his smoke, “If you lose me, it’s just one minor setback to our endgame.” They both paused, puffing. Swagger cleared his throat.

“You talk about it as if you weren’t the one paving the path. Do you really think everyone here has the same views you do? What makes you think I want to kill mages as much as you?” Maybe one hour of beer and talk was too much to ask for. Ten minutes. Fitz would give himself ten minutes.

“They’re the things that did _this_ to us,” The thief said, and he flicked his eyepatch for emphasis, “I take every shot because I  _can_ , because they gave me the advantage to hurt them,” He hissed. His associate looked unconvinced.

“Life isn’t vengeance,” He said slowly. Fitz groaned and fell back into his chair.

“Life is whatever I want it to be. So is death. I decide when they die because they would’ve done the same for me,” The brunette was gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to make what was in his head make sense in person too. Ash from his half forgotten cigarette fell.

Swagger didn’t respond. He just exhaled through his nose. He reminded Fitz of a slumbering dragon, waiting for ages if he must to protect his gold. What _was_ his gold? At the moment, it looked like tobacco and lager. The shorter man was soaking up the artificial sunlight in the compound’s one recreational room. Couches, chairs, tables, and overstuffed pillows littered the place. None of the furniture matched, too many of the rugs had stains—nobody really asked what from—and there was always a heady smell of lavender. No one was quite sure where it came from, but Fitz would bet money it was planted in the walls. Unlikely? He didn’t care. He was too busy wondering why it smelled like fucking  _lavender_. The American was unphased by the scent, but that could have something to do with the fact that he was unable to smell. Or taste, for the matter.

While both men had been affected by the infection, it stole something different from Swagger. It stole something different from everyone involved. Creamy, affected the least, had lost his ability to hear out of his right ear. His balance had been thrown for weeks, and it took him nearly a year to get back his skill with guns. He didn’t talk half as much as he used to. Only Fitz seemed to actually gain something, but then again only Fitz had been through what he’d been through.

There had been four of them, when the accident happened. Fitz didn’t let the others talk about their last man. He refused to relive that hurt.

His attention was pulled back to Swagger as the other man coughed. He had a red button-up shirt on, but it did little to cover anything. His hairy chest expanded with each breath as the American choked on his spit.

“Hairball?” Fitz joked. He ignored the steely glare cast his way. When the short man managed to catch his breath, he washed it down with a gulp of his drink, then finished by inhaling his cigarettes last puff.

“You should stop smoking,” He scolded, but his mouth betrayed him as a hypocrite by closing around his own cig, and Swagger flipped him off. While Fitz muffled a laugh, the American grunted and rolled onto his side briefly to fish something out of his pocket. When he revealed the thief’s gleaming knife the brunette stilled. His heart sped up, and there was a pounding in his ears. His associate hesitated when handing it to him, but didn’t seem too keen on denying Fitz his weapon either. As the taller man took it, his eye fluttered shut. Neither spoke as he slid it into his hidden pocket, but Swagger had a mild look of sympathy when Fitz hung his head in his hands. He was lightheaded already, and every nerve was itching for him to grab the knife again.

_Go find something warm and fleshy to sink it into..._

“Go away,” He croaked, but his shoulders shook. A long pause lapsed between the two halflings as Fitz struggled with the adrenaline overwhelming his head. Finally, he gasped in a breath he hadn’t realized he needed and scratched his neck awkwardly. His hands were shaking. Swagger offered him another smoke. The taller man took it, again, and leant close for a flame. He pulled away, inhaling a hit, and their eyes met. Swag’s stare was brown, and often richly warm, but he appeared dismayed.

“I mean this in the highest respect, but sometimes I wish they had killed you, so I didn’t have to hate the monster you’ve become,” The American said.

Fitz held his gaze for a long moment. Then, standing, he dropped the hardly touched cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the toe of his heavy boot. He didn’t say anything as he left the room, but some part of him wanted to grab his knife again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed. more to come!


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz suffers a triggering episode. He and Creamy finally acknowledge each other. Dr. Inut has an assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is really long and it feels unfitting but,,,,i hope its fitting
> 
> i also hope yall are following and not confused as fuck
> 
> OH BTW—WHEN IMAGINING CAMS ROOM JUST IMAGINE HOWLS FROM HOWLS MOVING CASTLE

His skin was on fire. He moaned, rolled over, and pressed his face into the hot, damp fabric of his pillow. With a sob Fitz struggled against the weight of his duvet and kicked a leg out. The cold air shocked his nerves, but it was that kiss of ice that began to calm his racing fever dreams. He couldn’t shake their hands from his shoulders, or escape the bite of their nails in his hips and hair. Fitz sobbed again. The blanket fell from his sweating form as he convulsed, leaving the frigid night to clamp around his skin.

The compound had shit heating, especially during the summer. The surface half-baked in the harsh sunlight and warmed the underground components during the day. However when the ground grew cold and the cement sucked the heat from the lower walls, Fitz could hardly escape the freeze. Normally it was a curse, but now he eagerly sucked in the air with a blubbering cry and sat up, trying desperately to escape his nightmares. The thief swayed, eye trying to make sense of his surroundings as he looked around the room.

Countless trinkets and items glittered in the warm light of a salt lamp lit in the west corner. His chest was heaving, but he almost calmed at the sights. As Fitz stripped he tossed his soaked clothes over the edge of his bed, then discarded of the pillow and blanket as well. His pale skin shone with sweat. He tried to count his breaths—one, two, three—before curling up in a tight ball. The man’s shoulders shook, and his skin was a map of goosebumps; everything ached. His head was a canon fused to his spine and Fitz could blow at any moment if he just gave himself the ability to.

The thought made his mind flash briefly to Z, and the man’s love for all things explosive. He himself was a firecracker; hot-headed and loud. Fitz dug his palm into his face and tried to stamp out the fire licking to life in his brain. He wouldn’t allow Z to be there, not physically or mentally. All Fitz wanted was the quiet buzzing of his room to lull away his sickness. One of the many clocks nailed to his wall _tick-tocked_. He looked up and watched the hands twitch with each passing second, but couldn’t seem to grasp the progression of time. He was stuck—rooted in place—to the past.

There was a pounding in his head. Even with all the warm lighting and softly glowing ornaments to distract him, Fitz was trapped in memory. He shook, choked on a taste that wasn’t there, and stared unseeing at the door. The thief gagged and swore he could feel their heavy fingers running across his tongue, prodding his gums, scraping at his teeth. His bed was a presence on his skin. Whether it was hands gripping his thighs or a chest against his back or legs sliding between his own, he couldn’t stop _feeling_ it. There was no way to pull away from the haunting ghosts and the way they sighed in his ear, clucked their tongues, gasped when he cried out and tensed.

It was only him, and his warm body alone in the cold, but in his head there was heat slashing through every nerve. Fitz knew he needed to wake up from the fear. He couldn’t smell reality anymore. Shooting upright he stumbled as his head rushed, but made it nonetheless to his mirror. Maybe if he could see his skin, see _himself_ , he’d remember. The soothing scent of fire and incense was gone; it was only sweat and chemicals now. Gurgling, the thief doubled over on his knees and dug his fingers into the carpet. They throbbed, protesting the action. He couldn’t count the times he had ripped away a nail or worn the tips raw on the abrasive cement floor, before he had collected and nested his room with rugs. He used to come around in the morning to find his hands bloodied, tender, and bruised. Fitz toppled over onto his shoulder, spittle gathering around his lips as his form convulsed again. Inching forward along the soft furs towards his mirror, the gentle feeling of the faux pelts comforted his racing mind. He gagged, and nearly vomited, but reached out to touch the reflecting glass hung a foot or so off the ground.

Once his fingers touched the cool reflection, and he saw that his body heat was only that; _his_ , Fitz was able to feel the air in his lungs. He coughed. He coughed again, and held back a dry-heave. Then, with visible effort, he struggled onto his knees and locked gazes with the man in the mirror. The pale, naked individual he saw was feeble and shaking. It almost didn’t look like him. Almost.

“Just me...it’s just me in here,” The thief whispered. He knew there was still something in his head, and absently he thought of the voice. “It’s just me in here and you in there. It’s just us.”

_They can’t hurt you anymore._

“If they tried–” He started, but his voice broke. Spit dripped from his lip onto his bare thigh. He sniffled, wiping it into his skin. There was snot running down his face and across his mouth, and large tears drying already on his cheeks. He looked like a mess. Fitz felt like a mess. But more than that, Fitz felt weak.

 _I won’t let them hurt you. You and I...you and your_ knife, _that’s all the protection you need._

Fitz didn’t believe that. He liked to tell himself he did, but deep down the brunette knew he could only do so much as a halfling. He couldn’t heal from everything, and he couldn’t escape forever. Exhaustion crashed over him.

“I want everyone out of my head. You, them, me. I just want my old brain back.”

_Then cure yourself._

He knew it was a taunt the moment he heard it, but something made him yearn for the simplicity of those words. If only he _could_ cure himself. If only, if only, if only. He couldn’t though, not while magic was left in the world. He couldn’t move on until he knew he was safe, and—almost as an afterthought—that Z was going to be alright as well.

_You have two options, and you know them better than anyone. Fitzy, baby, are you gonna use the gem as an antidote or a venom? You can’t stay like this forever…_

He scoffed, and let his head roll back, as if the weight of his thoughts was unbearably heavy, “You mean I can’t survive a _halfling_ forever. What about Swagger, and Creamy? They’re perfectly fine being corrupted.”

_They don’t have me. They also don’t know your pain._

“Why is it _my_ pain? Why can’t I be rid of it–”

 _Idiot boy._ The voice snarled. Fitz flinched, and receded more into his shell. He sensed guilt, and when the voice spoke again it was gentler. _Join me, kitten. Fix yourself with what you rightfully stole, and become a_ monster _. Everyone is expecting it already and I’ll be here every step of the way. Let me take care of you. Don’t you want to be invincible? Nothing could hurt you ever again. You’d be a full demon._ Better _than that, Fitzy...you’d be the Devil. What is fear to you when you’re the one who created it?_

The thief slumped forward, sweaty forehead sliding along the mirror. He chuckled sadly and thought, for only a moment, of bashing his head into the wall. His eye was still wet, and he tasted salt on his lips, yet he couldn’t tell if it was snot or tears, though wiped it away on the back of his hand nonetheless.

“Or,” He whispered, breath fogging the glass, “I could be human again. I could leave you behind.”

The voice was oil over his ears, and cotton in his brain, _I would be gone, but your nightmares would stay. Every night, every waking moment, you’d be haunted. Do you want that?_

“I want peace,” Fitz said dejectedly. His shoulders shook as another wave of grief washed over him, and fresh tears dripped down his nose. One splattered in his palm.

_Then earn it. Kill everyone who did this to you, and wipe the world of them. Earn your peace, because you’re a soldier now. You were from the first moment you volunteered for that mission._

He knew it was true; all of it. He couldn’t run, not when it would mean leaving behind years of work. Still, Fitz was angry. “You were a dick from the first moment I got you stuck in my head.”

_You know I love you. If only I had–_

“Hands. I _know_. Shut up...I’m going to think.” He didn’t have to ask twice, and could feel the voice slip away into a far corner of his head. It was like water washing over his skull and pooling in one ear; if he shook his head hard enough he might’ve been able to get rid of it. He glanced at the man in the mirror. The man there was shrouded in shadow and night, though he was more human than Fitz was in that moment. The man in the mirror had no brain, no heart, no blood, he was just a face and body. He was only the image of Fitz that he could see, but no matter what he did, the man in the mirror was a lifeless and voiceless copy. He would never exist unless the thief was there, and the thief felt like looking. Once his attention fell, the man in the mirror simply...stopped. And, because only Fitz’ blood was infected, the reflection was human.

“If only you could pull me through the glass,” He mumbled. Holding up a hand, he lifted his head away from the shimmering surface and placed his fingers over the fingers of his copy. Naturally, they lined up perfectly. If Fitz squinted hard enough he could imagine that the mirror was water, and he was slipping under. Opening his eye again, he looked past the identical red gaze in the reflection, and started trailing his attention over his tattoos.

They covered nearly every inch of his skin. Tortured skin. He couldn’t bare to look at his scars, so he’d inked over them for months. His arms, legs, and upper chest had large blooms of artwork. Starting at his wrists, he had koi fish and lily pads, but as the tattoos reached his shoulders and chest, they melted into hyacinth flowers and duckweed. Down his thighs, he’d chosen the same watery theme, with a family of frogs perched on cattails and nestled in ferns. As always, the scars glowed neon under his skin. It added a surface water effect over his coverups, as if they had been layered with pond ripples. He was a masterpiece of the cruelest kind. Blood had been his artist’s paint. Even now, he could feel where the needles had pierced his skin.

When he and the three other halflings had been captured, the mages who secured them had interesting forms of experimentation; one being injections. Fitz was still unsure to this day exactly what the concoctions were made of, but he knew in part that it was magic. Not a safe form however; one that had burned through his blood and scorched him from the inside out. He couldn’t remember the pain—his brain had repressed it—but he knew it had felt like acid stripping through his veins, eating whatever flesh it came into contact with. The thief wasn’t sure why one injection alone never killed him, but it always died out after an agonizing minute, leaving behind his unique scar tissue. He could suffer through that torture, and if he had to he would again.

It had been blinding pain, but it had been controllable, however numb he had to be to escape it. What he couldn’t forget though, was the physical side of his captors. Fitz could never shell himself away from those sessions. He’d been tied in place—both mind and body were trapped. It was only then, only during their defiling, that he would pray they’d kill him. It was only then that he would give up.

Having told his voice to leave, Fitz was now truly alone. He knew he should stand up, get changed, splash himself with water, but he had no energy to uproot himself from the carpet. He was too tired to try, and his triggers disabled his ability to fight. It was too much. In the early hours of morning the thief hung suspended between nightmares and waking, trying to find the thorn within himself that wouldn’t stop stabbing.

•••••

By the time Fitz was sane enough to form a coherent thought, the real-time map on his ceiling showed a midday sun nestled in wispy clouds. He rolled over, groggy, and winced as his shoulder popped. He pushed himself up off the ground and stretched the stiffness out of his back with a tight breath, moaning softly as a series of cracks clicked up his spine. _Christ_ , he thought. The base of his neck felt pinched but he pulled back his arms and extended the muscles until there was a burn under his skin. Finally feeling properly wrung out, the thief stood. His legs were half numb and tickled with pins, but he made it upright, however wobbly.

An enchanted crested gecko statue pretended to sun itself on his dresser. As he walked past, Fitz pet it’s green jeweled head and brushed dust from it’s large ruby eye, then lifted a thick purple veil from covering the handles of his drawers. He retrieved a starchy blouse and some black pants, finishing with a shove of his hip to shut the dresser, before slipping into clothes that weren’t smoke and memories.

The thief’s lips were chapped and he tasted stale tobacco, but he couldn’t hate himself for it now. As the shirt fell over his frame and finally covered his skin, he risked a cheeky look in the mirror. He liked this outfit. It tightened on his shoulders and arms, followed the slim trim of his waist, and highlighted just how long his legs were. More than that though, it worked with an open chested blouse. Somehow, whenever he wore it, he thought of medieval princes, or rich and lavish pirates.

 _You are a prince._ His companion whispered. It was a tongue of velvet under his skull.

“Not now,” He scolded, busy finding his socks and shoes. Oh, and where was his watch? “I’m going to go to lunch.”

_But what about me?_

“You’re not real. Besides, Z must not have slept well last night. I need to make sure he won’t fall asleep in the middle of saving my life.”

_Why not just call him, yeah? Do your stupid soulmate shit, and then give me a tease in the mirror._

It was tempting. To call Z, that is, not to strip. He ran his middle finger over the bead in his palm, burrowed under the skin, and knew Z was just one tap away. One tap. But Fitz furrowed his brow and decided against it. “It’s not ‘soulmate shit’, it’s our job,” He added cooly. “We have work to finish.”

_Sheesh. For both our sakes I hope you learn to be romantic again._

Fitz tightened his cuff buttons and then shook out his crisp sleeves. They felt nice. “I don’t need it,” The thief said.

The voice sounded dampened, almost akin to human mumbling, _Could at least use your dick…_

With an exasperated sigh, Fitz stamped his foot. “And you could fuck off. Bye!” Immediately, the slimy feeling was gone and he was alone. Properly alone. He must be losing himself more than he thought. Being so close to Z had been screwing with his emotions. The nearer they were, the stronger their bond, which meant the more intense his feelings. He didn’t like how clear his head felt, or the sickly-sweet flutters in his heart. It made work all that much harder to focus on.

Finally though, he was dressed. Fitz caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. He didn’t look...like Fitz. He looked like Cameron. The white shirt, subconsciously rolled to his elbows, and the stiff black jeans paired with those boots that boosted him an unnecessary extra inch. He was even wearing jewelry. A golden ring glinted on his middle finger—Z’s finger—and he had a honey colored chain dangling around his neck. The pendant was a bright green emerald, nestled between his breast and against his heart.

He’d spritzed himself with cologne, as well. Upon the realization, he stumbled backwards and into his desk, rocking papers loose. Groaning, the brunette gripped his head and grasped the edge of the sturdy table. What was his heart doing? He needed to find some distance again, or his hormones would ruin him.

A harsher thought shoved into his mind, one reminding him that if he corrupted himself the bond would leave, and Fitz would be free to work without the worry of going soft. As long as both he and Z were alive, their link would make them want nothing more than to be together. It was a survival technique, and as primitive as humankind itself, but one that the thief had cursed ever since his accident. He pinched his nose, steadied his breathing, and tensed his jaw. With steely composure, he set his gaze on the man in the mirror once more.

“I refuse to be weak.”

He repeated it a second time, and then a third, increasing his volume for the fourth and fifth until eventually he was shouting. As the echo of his own voice rung in his ears Fitz squinted his eye tightly shut and pushed every thought, feeling, and memory of loving Z into a deep corner. It would reside beside the voice, and only come out when beckoned. He refused to beckon it. He refused to be weak.

The mirror shattered under his fist, and the man within fell in slivers on the floor. On impact, Fitz gasped in a shocked breath at the pain. It burst through his knuckles and hand, shot up his arm, but he only bit his lip and moaned through gritted teeth. Pain was his mask. Pain was what cleared him. With it as a weapon, he was fresh.

His knife burned a hole through his outer thigh pocket the whole walk to the dining hall, but he ignored it and remained thankful for the presence of his inner fire. It crackled within his chest and spit embers. Those coals breathed to life in his lungs, making each word he spoke a flame. Fitz had built a reputation on fear; it was time to maintain that.

Standing tall, he greeted the entirety of his compound for lunch with a stormy glare and his mouth set in a hard line. The vast room fell silent. His heels clicked on the cement with each step. Several of the newer cadets stood and saluted the brunette as he strided past, but many of their weathered, more experienced, acquaintances gave him a respectful nod of their head. It was to these men and women that he glanced, silently grateful for their loyalty. He’d seen many faces come and go. It was always a brief relief to see familiar ones at each meal.

At the head of the dining hall, there was a large gap between the three rows of cadet tables, and the one he ate at. Seated around it were his only trusted people.

Swagger, face half obscured by metal chainmail. His helmet was at his elbow, about one of the only times the majority of their soldiers would see it anywhere but his shoulders. The American didn’t like to show his scars because—unlike Fitz—they were not under the skin. To his left was their sharpshooter, Creamy, though he appeared to be finishing up. When the shorter man saw Fitz, he stilled, then set his empty plate back down. Z was next to him, silent. He had a mouthful of food falling back onto his fork, eyes nearly as big as their coffee mugs were wide. There was a deep red high in his cheeks and a love-sick look in his baby blues that made Fitz clear his throat uncomfortably.

“Gentlemen,” He murmured, pulling out his own chair across the table from Z and, subsequently, next to the Doctor. Matt—or so he hoped was the other man’s name—gave the thief a quick side-eye, though seemed rather unaffected by his unlikely appearance. Swagger, too, remained passive to the brunette’s showing, but Creamy and Z were visibly shaken. Fitz looked up, locking eyes with the sniper, and held out his hand.

“Could you pass me the sandwiches?” His voice broke the fellow New Zealander from his trance and Creamy startled into action. He grabbed the large plate, though Fitz noticed a slight tremor in his grip as he handed it over. The thief grabbed one—it appeared to be roasted tomato, turkey, and fresh bean sprouts.

“Do you want the salad as well?” Creamy asked. He was already reaching for the bowl, and Fitz nodded.

“Splendid idea.” They handed off the food. The brunette began to fill his plate, only half-way or so, but was content to be in good company and have a warm belly. A kitchen maid appeared at his side, most likely finishing her rounds with the cadets, and offered him a pitcher. He didn’t ask what was in it, but allowed the young woman to fill his glass. She whisked off when he nodded at her to stop.

Fitz cleared his throat, and half raised his glass. Swagger, always one for toasts, was eager to lift his own drink in favor. Creamy and Matt joined them, but Z still had a distant look in his eyes. Fitz held his gaze, extended his arm to silently clink the Australian’s empty glass, and then took a sip. Foam kissed his upper lip, and he tasted an ale of some kind.

“Good drink,” He mumbled. Swagger made a hum of agreement through his bite of food. Finally, Z spoke. He was staring at the glint of Fitz’ ring.

“I’m so glad you could join us for lunch.” His tone was dry, and he sounded tired. Fitz didn’t doubt he was.

“The last meal I ate was the breakfast before our last assignment. I felt it fitting to come and enjoy good food and good friends.” It was an attempt to steer Z off course, and a lousy one at that, but Fitz didn’t much feel like getting gritty with an audience to watch them. Besides, his head was still swimming and he wasn’t himself.

“I’m assuming you didn’t sleep well, then?” The Australian probed. He had a fork between his fingers, though he looked like he had forgotten it was there. Fitz watched his lips dip into a tight frown.

“Z–” He tried, but all he received was a darkening anger. Z tightened his grip on the utensil. He looked ready to snap it in half.

“You can’t do this, y’know. You can’t fuck off, from _all_ of us, and then come around just when _you_ need the comfort.” His voice cracked but he ignored it, narrowing his eyes at Fitz, “Hell, you’re even dressed the part for fuck’s sake.”

The thief shook his head, tone softening. “Z, I didn’t–”

“Didn’t think? Didn’t care?”

Fitz froze. Already, the argument was lost. The brunette’s face sombered and he leaned back more in his chair. The space between him and Z grew. “I didn’t want you to worry. I wanted you to think everything was alright.”

A firecracker exploded somewhere within the younger. He was fire; rage and red and raw. “Alright? _Alright?_ You got shot less than forty-eight hours ago and you’re trying to tell me, _me,_ that I shouldn’t worry? You’re bleeding right now. How can I not fucking worry?” He sounded miles away. He was always miles away. Fitz sniffed tiredly and looked down at his mangled hand. The skin was already stitching itself back together.

“I was bleeding. I’m fine now.”

Z threw down his fork and beside him Creamy winced at the clatter. “Right. No, really, you’re fine, I can see that.” He grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth, then threw that down too. With an added whisper he said, “Dressed the fucking part.” The Aussie looked as if he was going to stand, but he hesitated and sought his mate’s look. When he opened his mouth, the voice Fitz had grown accustomed to hearing was sharp—freshly-cut-grass green—and weeping. “You didn’t even let me in last night...”

The thief held his eyes. He wanted Z to see, for all the world, what he felt, even if he could not speak it. But life was short for a reason, and Fitz wouldn’t apologize when he was so close to breaking already. Soulmates or not. “I couldn’t,” He said. Z pursed his lips and stood from the table. His fingertips remained on the edge, lightly brushing the corner of his napkin. It was a painful detail for Fitz to be aware of. He didn’t feel like watching Z’s hands.

“Fine, then. Act like that.” The Aussie pushed back his chair, and raised his hand in a mock salute. Despite the blatant disrespect, his eyes burned with fresh tears. “You know how to find to me when you need to, _Sir_.” He turned sharply on his heel and stalked off behind the table, away from the cadets. Fitz watched him until he couldn’t anymore. He tried to ignore the flash of pain he felt through their bond when Z lifted his hand to his now tearful face and disappeared through a door.

Swagger cleared his throat and for a moment the thief thought he was going to be lectured. But then he remembered who exactly _he_ was, and shot the American a harsh glare. Standing from his own seat, he looked around the table.

“It was a pleasure to eat with you all again. It really felt like the old days.” Which was a lie. Nothing felt like the old days, not anymore, but he didn’t dare let them catch a hint that he was struggling to wrangle his emotions. He needed control. _Power_ was power. He nearly turned to leave before he noticed an envelope, cream in color, pinched under the Doctor’s glass.

“Did you have something for me?” He asked. His quiet voice cut the tension like butter, and Matt appeared more than relieved to move past Z’s emotional outburst.

“Ah– I did. I _do_. One of my associates in the Dusk District recently took in a rather... _interesting_ patient. Gun wound, explosion trauma, and a unique form of branding on his shoulder. Look familiar?” He retrieved the envelope and allowed Fitz to take it from him. The thief tore open the sealed letter and pulled out the papers within. One was a photograph. He flipped it around and frowned.

“That’s Kryoz’ sign. Was he captured? We assumed he escaped the safehouse bombing.”

“He did. However, it appears his dearest Smiity did not.” Fitz combed through the rest of the papers and found one more picture. It was Seven-Y alright. He was bruised and bloodied, but seemingly stable under the watchful eye of Matt’s companion. _For how long?_ Fitz thought.

“He’s being sent to our District. Swagger and I thought _you_ might be able to get something out of him.”

“It seems you were right. How much time do I have?”

“The truck arrives tonight.”

“I’ll be there. Hall Six?”

“No, not for this. We need to go big. He’ll be held in Hall Eight.”

They had four halls dedicated to special kinds of information extractions. Hall Eight was the one only halfings had access to, purely because of the nature of the torture that went down within those walls. Fitz cracked his face into a wicked smile, eyes twinkling. Within his pocket, the metal weapon gleamed and trilled a silent tune through his blood.

He was fear, and He was pain. He was power, and He was Hall Eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wink wonk z wants cock


	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smiity has a bad day. Z gets something he's been wanting. Fitz takes a bath. Ryan says hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy your food. i apologize for never fucking updating. i hope the 5k words yall are about to read are worth the wait my loves

“Do you think he knows the way?” Fitz was standing across the room from his subject. Smiity was still unconscious, though only for as long as the thief wanted him to be. Something about his sleeping form made the mad, red-hot wire running through Fitz’ body strum to an unheard song and his head twitched once, a quick shake to the side, but he calmed himself by falling into the routine of cleaning his tools.

Matt shrugged in response, “He has to. He’s Kryoz’ mate, isn’t he? If they haven’t shared the information verbally, they’ve at least shared it through their bond.” There was a beat of silence. When the doctor spoke again he sounded reserved, distant almost, as if he was worried how his companion would interpret his words. “Kryoz will feel what you do to him as well, you know.”

Fitz spun a pair of tweezers between his fingers, freezing when the sharp end stopped in the thick skin of his palm. He closed his hand around the item and looked at the stranger. The red of his eye nearly glowed in the fluorescent light, and he grinned wickedly, “I hope he does feel it,” The man cooed, “He’s hurt enough of my cadets.” The shorter of the two looked away, tongue in cheek. There was a tense set to his shoulders and he busied himself by running his nail over the serrated edge of a bone saw, though still appearing uneasy.

“If he _doesn’t_ tell–” He started, but the thief cut him off.

“Then he’ll die; simple as that. I’m pushing him until he breaks.” The brunette sniffed, held a vial of something blue and thick up to the light, then set it down amongst a row of several other curious looking liquids.

“Fitz,” Matt muttered, shaking his head. He sighed heavily and knew whatever route he took next would end in an argument. He’d known the halfling long enough—for the better part of two days, that is—to know he was set in his ways. “Smiity himself didn’t hurt you. Just remember that.”

“He let his mate do it. He let him–” Fitz spat, turning sharply on his heel. His hand flew instinctively to a cruel looking tool, one he himself wasn’t even sure how to use, but it felt right under his fingers when he turned it wickedly on Matt, watching as he backed up and raised his hands submissively. It was a pleasant sight, and something deep inside the taller man twisted gleefully at the action.

“I know, I know,” The doctor soothed, “But a man can _change_. Besides…” He added, voice so low only the two of them heard it, and even then Fitz had to strain his enhanced hearing, “I have the feeling Z doesn’t agree with this, either.” A hush fell over the room. The thief picked up on Matt swallowing, and Smiity sighing softly in his sleep. There was a scream from somewhere nearby that made his gaze flash to the door. He tore it away a second later and stepped closer to his associate, lip lifting in a snarl.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The doctor shook his head passively, trying to defuse the situation quickly. He had a sheen of sweat covering his forehead. Fitz silently relished in the smell of fear wafting off of the other man in waves.

“It means,” The American stuttered, “That a bond can be strong enough to blind a person. Smiity will stick by Kryoz every step of the way, even if what his mate does hurts him.” The thief sensed they weren’t talking about the man strapped to the chair anymore, but about a certain halfling and his mess of a bond. He didn’t like it, and stepped ever closer. Matt bumped into the table behind him, tools clinking together at the jostling movement.

 _Our little mouse is trapped,_ The voice sung, and Fitz’ face flickered with a smile. He paused, however, as the door slid open and Matt continued to speak, now with a false sense of added confidence as Swagger entered the room.

“I was simply mentioning the fact that, while Smiity is Kryoz’ mate, it doesn’t mean he deserves the same punishment as the man who did the crime. You wouldn’t want Z to suffer for your–” His words died in his throat, the halfling tilting the doctor’s face up suddenly with the dangerous end of whatever weapon he had in his grip. It glinted in the light, and the curve of it’s blade creased Matt’s skin gently. With enough pressure Fitz was sure he could make the man bleed, something that pleased him greatly. He’d had enough snark from the stranger, and didn’t like being talked back to in _his_ compound.

“His morals,” Fitz whispered, “Are his morals.” His words cut like ice through the heated air, dripping in shadows. “And I’ve never asked Z to follow me anywhere.” Swagger called his name then, voice straining slightly with the edge of a command he didn’t dare say. The thief backed off Matt, feigning boredom already. Besides, he was confident that the scene his fellow halfling had just witnessed would be one they’d all remember.

“Session has begun,” The taller man shouted, words echoing off the metal walls, “Everyone is dismissed.” He didn’t watch, but listened, as Matt cleared his throat nervously and hurried over to where the calmer halfling stood in the doorway. Swagger grasped his shirt firmly, practically hauling him out into the corridor. Their conversation was cut off by the door closing once more and—this time—locking shut, but Fitz could hear them walking down the hallway.

The elder American mumbled something bitterly, but followed up with, “Little note to self; if you want something out of that guy back there, never mention his goddamn bond.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to learn that,” Matt croaked. The thief imagined him rubbing his chin where the blade had kissed him, eyes wide and scared. It made his lips twitch into a smirk, though he felt his annoyance fading away now that he and his subject were alone. Rather, alone as they could be. The voice swirled deep within his consciousness like a snake, scales sliding over his brain. He hated the sensation, instead distracting himself with the silvery sounds of clinking tongs. The halfling hummed to himself, wondering what he’d extract with the tool by the time Smiity cracked. That was, _if_ he cracked. Part of Fitz hoped he wouldn’t, just so he could kill the man. It had been a while since his last, well, _failed_ interrogation, but his hands had been itching for blood and death far too much as of late. The thief knew if it wasn’t Smii7y today, it would be some poor sap tomorrow.

Sighing, the brunette’s gaze fell on the unconscious man. He looked peaceful; much nicer than the last time they had talked. Sleep made his face relax, and he’d lost the tension only war could give to a man. Fitz briefly wondered how _he_ looked while he slept, but shrugged the thought off quickly. To crave peace was to crave an escape, and Fitz didn’t want an escape. He wanted answers.

Grabbing the vial of blue liquid from before, he popped the cap and produced a syringe from the slim bag on his hip. He’d had many laugh at the accessory—one he only wore while working with a subject—but couldn’t bring himself to part with it. The thief liked keeping several needles within reach at all times; partially so he could have multiple injections ready and onhand, but also useful should he feel like stabbing someone with something that wouldn’t immediately kill them. Besides—it had been a gift. Encouraging any bubbles to float to the top with a half-hearted tap, Fitz checked that the shot was safe to administer. Where was the fun in Smiity dying before he even woke up? There wasn’t any.

With the syringe satisfactory, the thief pushed his subject’s head to the side and—quite unkindly—plunged the needle into Smiity’s skin. He emptied the liquid into the other man’s bloodstream, then retracted the shot and placed it to the side. As he waited for the Canadian to gain consciousness, Fitz ran his fingers lightly over his tools. He wasn’t sure which one to use, not yet. He first wanted to see what Smiity was most afraid of. Hopefully it wasn’t the bonesaw or pliers; Fitz really didn’t feel like pulling fingernails or removing body parts at the moment. His night had just started, alright? Give the man a moment to settle into things.

Smiity moaned softly, head rolling back. With sleep no longer present, his brow furrowed again and his lips pursed.

 _There we go...that’s the real him._ Fitz wasn’t entirely sure he agreed, but didn’t feel like arguing. It was difficult to argue with an entity inside his own head, anyway. It knew everything he wanted to say. Leaning back to get a better view, the thief felt a rush of exhaustion tumble over him, wringing out his bones and turning his face to lead. He huffed, once, and leant back on his heels. He hadn’t slept, not in days, and what attempts he did make to end the dryspell ended in nightmares that kept him awake for hours more. There was a string in his chest, tugging him towards a man unseen but always somewhere within his mind. Fitz grit his teeth, quelling the urge to seek out his mate. With a distraction needed for the sake of his own sanity, the thief let his fingers trace the outline of his knife through his pocket. It jumped into his touch, eager and ready, always the perfect little toy. He knew, however, that if he grabbed it, Smiity _would_ die. And fast.

The other man was nearly awake now. Fitz tore his hand from the concealed weapon, though his skin burned at the loss, and stepped forward to grasp his subject’s chin firmly. Smiity made a small noise, one pained and hidden within his chest, but the thief knew how to extract sound from people. He knew how to listen, and how to write music with the tongues of those under his blade. So, as the shorter man—bound and powerless—made a move to flinch from his touch, Fitz dug his thumb into the healing wound on the Canadian’s lip. It split easily, and fresh blood welled on the surface. Smiity winced, eyes screwing shut.

“Wha– What?” He whimpered, disoriented. The thief watched him. He wanted to find his tell. It was there somewhere, he knew it was, but the metallic smell of blood was too tantalizing for him to focus on the little things. He wiped his thumb once more over the cut, smearing his subject’s blood down his chin with a mirroring frown of his own. _He looks good like this,_ His company slithered. Fitz swore he felt a warm tongue behind his ear, licking secrets and drooling lies. He suppressed a shudder, yanking his hand back. The man’s head fell with a surprised gasp, and the fresh pain made his back tense suddenly.

 _He’s supposed to be tough._ It sounded more like a question than anything, and Fitz agreed. Smiity felt... _weak_ before him. Like a scared man with nothing he could say to save himself. Unfortunately for him, the thief had dealt with his kind before. They cried from the beginning, and slunk deep into their well-rehearsed characters. Next, Fitz half expected him to start spewing that he was innocent. The man lifted his face and met his torturer’s eye.

“Where…” His dehydrated tongue must have been thick in his throat, and he choked, but began to blink away the clearing sedative addling his mind. “Chloe!” Smiity cried out suddenly, yanking against his constraints. Fitz raised an eyebrow curiously. _Chloe?_ His companion repeated. Fitz nodded.

“Chloe,” The thief breathed, kneeling in front of Smiity. The Canadian watched him blearily, trying to piece together where he was...and under whose watch. “Tell me more, won’t you, darling?”

“She’s–” He groaned and winced in pain, head slumping forward into Fitz’ touch, cheek fitting gently into his capture’s hand. Fitz hummed in sympathy and stroked the soft, sweaty skin. With his other hand he cupped Smiity’s other cheek, and righted his head so their eyes met. Smiity was close to tears now, and still trying to wake up properly. He wasn’t able to though, not with the thief’s drugs coursing through him. He was a fun subject to get answers out of, but the halfling distantly wondered if he was acting, as well. He’d seen what Smiity could do, and he knew the man was a good pretender.

Hands insistent, Fitz cupped Smiity closer to him and whispered so close their noses touched, “Can you tell me, baby? I want to hear you. Be good for me and I’ll be good for you.” His eye fluttered shut, tickling Smiity’s cheek, and the Canadian whined high in his throat. He was confused, and unable to grab any sense of his surroundings, but he knew he needed to be there for _someone_. He couldn’t remember who though, not in his current state. The brunette was puddy under Fitz’ claws; all that was left to do now was sink them in.

“I need to get to her. Do...you know…” Smiity said, voice quiet. Fitz smiled, kissing his cheek, and ran his hands down the other man’s throat, squeezing lightly. He was mad, he really was, but he hadn’t been this blissful since his last interaction with Smiity.

“Damn,” He muttered, “What is it with our chemistry? You can always get me going, sweetheart.” Fitz didn’t stop there however, and stood, hands still clasped loosely around his subject’s throat. “I know where Chloe is. Why do you need to get to her?” He pressed. Smiity’s eyes flickered shut.

 _And here I thought we were gonna use tools…_ The filth bubbled, sounded mildly disappointed. The thief reassured it that they still could, though he never opened his mouth. Smiity gasped in a breath. Fitz nearly squeezed off his air supply then, craving a taste of control, but refrained when the victim peeked up at him.

“Mate?” The Canadian questioned, expression shaped with misunderstanding. The halfling furrowed his own brow and peered down at the drugged man. “Mate,” Smiity said again, eyes snapping open, and his body jolted upright in the chair as if he meant to run. Fitz’ victim was frantic now, eyes leaking with sudden tears as he gasped in a ragged breath. He appeared rabid with memories, face flickering between emotions as he struggled in his bindings.

 _Or_ , The being oozed, _He’s remembering something he doesn’t want to_. Smiity’s tone was pleading, but it wasn’t directed at Fitz. A deep fire had been rekindled in the young man, one that raged to the surface of his skin and made him glow with the strength of his bond.

“She’s my mate.”

•••••

Z adjusted his shirt around his waist, though it still lifted above his pantline and showed a strip of his stomach with each heaving breath. He swallowed thickly, eyes squinted tightly shut as he fought to calm himself, and a hazy smile spread across his features. Lazily, the Aussie reached a hand out, searching for something to anchor himself. Dog tags jingled around his neck at the movement. Dog tags Fitz had kissed moments before. He’d yanked on their chain roughly, and had finished at the sight of Z pressed against the wall, with their silvery flash illuminating in his eyes. The two men hadn’t removed their clothes. They’d taken each other there and then, not caring of the obstacles when their bond was strong enough to intoxicate them.

Fitz pulled away from the touch and finished buttoning his pants. His cheeks were red with his own exertion and he was struggling to keep his breathing even as he inhaled deeply through his nose, but he didn’t want to think about what had happened, nor what he’d done. That was the reason he’d sought Z out in the first place; to stop thinking. As a result, the Aussie dropped his hand at his side and grunted out a pained laugh.

“So, what?” He spat bitterly, “We’re fuck buddies now? You didn’t even want me touching you last month, and now you’re expecting me to drop everything to help you calm down?” His voice carried a thick veil of sass, though Fitz didn’t have to guess what it was covering up. He could feel Z’s hurt; even if he didn’t want to. Rolling his eye, the thief wiped his face with his hand and looked around for his belt. It was tossed haphazardly across the room, coiled in the seat of a chair. As he headed for it, he couldn’t stop the venom from slipping into his tone.

“And yet, you still dropped everything, didn’t you? Unless that wasn’t _your_ ass I just fucked.” He snatched the belt and threaded it through his pant loops, anger already returning. He must be fucking stupid. Why, for one second, did Fitz think he could turn to Z and walk away unscathed? He was better off keeping his distance. The halfling hated the guilt he heard in Z’s voice, nonetheless.

Whispering, Z stepped closer, “Cammy, baby, settle down. What is going on with you?” Fitz only knew he grew nearer because the thread in his chest shortened. He didn’t listen for Z’s clinking dog tags. He didn’t turn around to glance over his shoulder for Z. He didn’t breathe, and will his heart to beat, and _exist_ for Z. The heaviness in the Aussie’s voice made the thief want to punch walls until his bones shattered.

 _Who told him to feel anything? I thought you made it perfectly clear you were just there to have sex,_ His entity crowed. Fitz couldn’t help but agree. He had to agree. He had to.

“I’m fine,” He huffed instead, wiping off his shirt; a strand of Z’s hair had fallen onto it. “I just needed to think. You can get back to your work.” Turning to go, Fitz flinched in annoyance when the shorter man clutched his arm. Their bond screamed to life in his bones. It burned so hot it almost hurt. Almost. While he didn’t think Z would try to kiss him, he didn’t want him not to try, so he didn’t plan on stopping it. Still, it was a shock as cold as ice when the brunette stood on his toes and recklessly crashed their lips together. Feigning surprise, the halfling let him. For only a breath—for only a painstakingly long beat—the thief let Z cup his face and pull the taller man down into him. Their lips slotted together perfectly. Fitz wanted to pretend he was shocked; he wasn’t. The scent of eucalyptus was so strong he thought he’d forget how to breathe. His lungs were used to air, but he wasn’t getting air, not now. He was drowning in waves of tea-tree and lavender, salt laced kisses turning his mind to mush as teeth bit his bottom lip. His moan was broken when he tasted Mason’s sugary sweetness, and Cameron knew he was going to die there. He nearly did. When Z’s fingers brushed the shell of Fitz’ ear however, their tether thrummed soul-deep, and the thief broke away with a gasp.

He couldn’t. Not then, not there, not without caring. He couldn’t kiss Z. To fuck him—to _ruin_ him—was different. Fitz got high from the touch, but it was a high he created. Z’s lips, however; sedatives. And he didn’t want to fall asleep anymore.

The taller man’s words were slurred, but he knew how to say no as he stumbled away. He chanted the word like a prayer as he tripped, scrambling across the floor until his legs managed to get back under him. Fitz slammed the door behind him, trying with everything he had to ignore Z’s begging cry and sad, lifeless eyes. His chanting didn’t stop until he’d carried himself out of the compound’s residential unit and into a maze of hallways. The twists and turns of concrete could lead anywhere. Why did Z always lead him to forks in the road?

His chanting remained heavy on his tongue until adrenaline burned like mint in his mouth and anger settled once more in his chest, replacing the cottony lightness that Z always provoked. His chanting didn’t leave until Fitz was in his bathroom. There, cut off from the world, he crawled into the bathtub and turned on the water. It was freezing, but he didn’t care. His skin burned with acid again. He could feel needles pricking his skin, and magic rewriting his genes, and breath stinking of coffee against his cheeks as someone, some _thing,_ moved inside him.

The water soaked his clothes. It filled his shoes, weighing his feet to the bottom of the tub. His eyepatch grew heavy, and he tore it off in a blind fury. He could still only see black. With a ragged scream, he curled in on himself. Water began to lap around his waist. Frantically, trying to kill off any urges left over from Z, Fitz slumped forward and submerged his head. He wanted to breathe in and feel the frigid liquid slosh around in his lungs. The thief still had people to hurt though, and he wanted to hurt them badly. Gasping upright, Fitz let his wet hair stream rivers down his face, screaming again. His bond was remembering where it belonged—nowhere pretty, and slowly began to recede. After a few more minutes it was simply whitenoise.

Shaking, Fitz clambered out of the overflowing tub. He didn’t bother turning off the water. Stooping to pick his eyepatch up off the tile floor, he wrung it out before strapping it once more over his face. His clothes were still dripping wet, and puddles pooled behind him with each step, but it was _his_ fucking compound. And _he_ was in control. As he left the bathroom and stalked out into _his_ disorientating hallways, Fitz’ balance wavered for a moment.

_You’re going to pass out, sexy. You pushed yourself too far._

“Fuck off,” He growled, and headed for the command center. Ryan. Fitz needed to find Ryan.

_Fine. Just don’t yell at me when you collapse._

The walls swam together, and molded seamlessly into the ground. His vision had become a blurring tunnel of whining lights and duplicate doors. One handle. He only needed one familiar handle to find the right room. After what felt like hours, but must have only been minutes, Fitz found what he’d been looking for.

Z hated the command center. He refused to step inside the place. His mission information was either later relayed, or delivered in both highly confidential, and highly protected, envelopes. He was extra that way, but Fitz remembered an old argument the two had gotten into. Z wouldn’t stop screaming about how that room ruined things. Ruined things like halflings, and bonds, and lives. Fitz didn’t understand him at the time, and he still didn’t, but he could play with ideas that Z might have meant. As he reached for the handle—painted black instead of silver, and almost dysfunctional from Z’s deeply carved safety runes—the thief felt a shuddering wave of heat crash over him. He ignored it, and wobbled inside. His eyesight was clouded, but he didn’t have to see to know everyone was staring.

“Ryan!” He shouted, and Fitz’ weight gave out from under him, “Ryan, mate, get Smiity.” His head lolled to the side and he nearly blacked out there, but then strong hands closed around his shoulders and shook him violently. A thin film of spittle was beginning to form around his mouth and his breathing had grown unsteady. He wheezed out a shaky grunt. Extending his arm out blindly, he found a man’s face. The beard was scratchy but well-kept, and Fitz gurgled on stomach bile as he fought against the urge to vomit.

“Ryan...there’s poison...” The urge won, and Fitz spit out his own blood. He couldn’t see anything, and his hearing had gone while he’d still been in the hall. There were more hands on him now. Distantly, his brain wanted to panic at the sensation. Some part of him refused to believe he was in danger, however. Maybe it was the damp tickle of his hair against his ear. It reminded him of warm fingers and clean-cut nails.

•••••

_“She’s your mate?” He’d repeated, and Smiity had nodded hysterically. The Canadian tried to stand again before falling into his seat with a pathetic noise of defeat. Fitz released his throat and stepped back, never looking away. Smiity was babbling, and begging, and swaying with each agonizing cry._

_“Please, sir,” He sobbed, “Please, you have to let me find her. These people– This man, he has my wife and child. I’ve been drugged, sir. I’ve been drugged–” Fitz raised his hands calmly, speaking in hushed tones._

_“With what?” The thief said, “What did this man do to you?” Smiity shook his head and wracked in the chair with what appeared to be unbearable pain. His noises were almost animalistic, ones that Fitz could feel in his chest as the victim—no longer his, but the mage’s—tried his luck at the bindings again. They didn’t give, and the thief slowly made his way around the chair to undo them._

_“I don’t know. Needles, sir. Injections that made me forget. I’ve been...oh God, I’ve done terrible things, sir. Please, please I beg of you, I need to get to them. He might’ve–” His voice broke and he hung his head, only half-noticing the slack of his constraints now. Fitz made his way back to the man’s front, and knelt in front of him._

_Softly, he whispered, “I know what you’ve done. We’ll get your wife and child back. My name is Fitz, and I’m here to hurt the man who did this to us both. Can you stand?” His anger was gone now, replaced instead with delicately placed sympathy. He knew Smiity’s confusion, and he knew Smiity’s fear even better. “Can you stand?” He said again when the Canadian’s heaving wails only grew louder. Abruptly, and in a way that could only be learned from experience, Fitz found his satchel ripped from his waist._

_Smiity stood with a shout, syringes clutched dangerously tight in his grasp. Fitz cursed, falling onto his back and rolling away as the Candian crashed onto the ground where he’d just been, stabbing the cement floor. Two needles broke, but there was still one left in his hand. The thief attempted to claw his way upright. He grabbed the edge of his wheeled table and slammed it down on Smiity, watching only long enough to see if he was injured. He wasn’t. The shorter man wormed on the ground towards Fitz. His bindings were still coiled around his legs, but he lurched forward and made a lunge with his weapon at the halfling’s thigh._

_Grunting as if the noise helped him escape it, the thief twitched just out of reach at the last second, but he was pinned between another table now, and couldn’t stand without taking his eye off Smiity. The second jab caught him. He didn’t let his body register the needle sinking into his skin. With the Canadian’s hand still driving the syringe into Fitz’ leg, the halfling was free to stab his own needle into Smiity’s wrist. His injection was much larger however, and often took the form of a double-edged knife. As the blade penetrated the man’s inner arm, and sliced through the other side, his grip slackened. Crying out, Smiity attempted to retreat from the pain, but Fitz was on him now, and crawling forward with adrenaline fueled speed. He was on top of his subject within the same breath, and pinning his arms to the abrasive cement._

_“Cunt!” He roared, spit flying from his lips and landing on Smiity’s cheek. He was laughing though, and there was a distance in his gaze that showed he wasn’t Fitz anymore. Something had snapped, and he screamed into the shorter man’s face. Smiity screamed back, but Fitz didn’t like that. He didn’t like not having the spotlight. Thrashing his arm to the side, he let out a breathless chuckle as his knife tore through the Canadian’s wrist. Something close to a broken bone could be heard over the squelch of ripping flesh. Smiity shrieked. Fitz wanted him to shut up already, so he jammed his blade deeper into the other man’s wound and stood, panting. Smiity groaned, and made a move to shift his weight onto his elbows, but the halfling kicked his face._

_His heavy boot connected fully, and another deep crack filled the room. Smiity spasmed, voice seeping out in a muffled groan. Fitz’ boot slammed down again, and again, and again, until the Candian stopped making noise. He was still breathing, though the thief wondered for how long. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. Spinning to stare at every corner of the room, his insanity throbbed like a vein in his neck, simply waiting to burst._

_“You will never have me!” Fitz screeched. He pointed at one wall, and then the other three. Kryoz was nowhere, yet everywhere. “I will break you! I will break you piece by piece, just because I want to. It doesn’t matter who your mate is,” The thief was bellowing now, voice straining to hold the power he willed it to have, “They’ll all get to feel me carve you up. Me! Me, the man you will never own again.”_

_With a stumbling step, he looked down at Smiity. The man’s chest was still moving; he’d make it long enough. Fitz couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. The prick in his leg had grown numb and he smiled. His halfling blood would give him time. He had time. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. As he locked the door behind him, the thief wondered where he was going. He knew, of course, but he wondered nonetheless._

_Z’s door opened after his first knock, and Fitz purred at the sight. He didn’t have to wonder anymore. Z was fully dressed, and had a curious look on his face. Fitz didn’t wonder anymore. He didn’t need to think. They’d tear each other apart on the floor, or against the wall, or bent over Z’s neatly organized desk. They’d tear each other apart. He didn’t need to think when Z was there. Z would rip his body into pieces, limb by limb, and then sew him up so he felt better than he had since his accident._

_z would take care . z would z woudl  Z. Z. Z. Z. Z. Z. Z.Z.Z.Z.Z. would .Z.Z. Z.Z.Z.Z.Z. he knew how Z.Z..Z.Z.Z. ZZ.Z.Z.Z.Z.Z. theyd  z z z Z..Z.Z.Z.Z.Z.Zrip .Z.Z.Z .Z. Z.Z..Z .Z.Zeach other .Z.Z .Z.Z.Z. Z.Z .Z ZZapart ZZ. ZZZZ.Z.Z..Z.Z.Z.Zbecause z z z z knew Z .Z MASON MASON MASON mason zz z MASON MASON MASON Z. Z z z z z mason m aso n would know mason always knew._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im 100% sober. what just happened? i dont know. shit i guess.....


End file.
